


Hidden Heart, Hidden Verse: Early Morning Stanzas

by ChampagneSly



Series: Hidden Verse, Hidden Heart (Poetry AU) [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Poetry, Romance, sweet smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another ficlet in the Hidden Heart, Hidden Verse verse! </p><p>Arthur tries his hand at cooking. Alfred tries his hand at poetry. </p><p>Sweetness and smuttiness ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Heart, Hidden Verse: Early Morning Stanzas

He woke alone to cold sheets and yet another morning of rain. Alfred minded the dreary weather less than the emptiness of the bed, wondering why Arthur insisted on getting up and going God only knew where on one of the two mornings when he didn’t have to run off to Cambridge to charm this English crop of Kirkland admirers. Alfred didn’t have any courses to teach or papers to grade and indulged in the awesome fruits of his sabbatical every morning, fall back into indolence he’d thought he’d abandoned during the summer after his PhD. Arthur’s face always took an adorably pinched expression of exasperation and envy when he came home for lunch and found Alfred still wandering the house in his sweats, scattering drafts of the book chapter that was supposed to be his reason for his sojourn across the pond. Which was why Alfred really wanted to know why Arthur had gone and abandoned him, given up his opportunity to take part in Alfred’s laziness and let Alfred spoil him rotten to make up for the five days a week Alfred didn’t wake up in time to give Arthur a properly enthusiastic good morning. 

Groaning reluctantly, he fumbled for his glasses, surprised to find them folded over Arthur’s book and he wondered if he’d fallen asleep with them on again. Alfred ran his finger down the well worn spine and hoped that Arthur hadn’t noticed that he’d dogeared one of the pages when he’d settled down on yet another rainy afternoon to find out what it was that kept Artie so enraptured every day.

He hadn’t gotten a single damned thing done that day, standing on the creaky floorboards of a rented house, reading words aloud and trying to listen to the echo to see if he sounded even a fraction as good as Arthur. 

Alfred looked for his favorite pants, damned ugly things that were comfortable as sin, but after two minutes of fruitless searching and the English chill threatened his extremities, gave up in favor of whatever was handy so he could brush his teeth and go off in search of a wayward professor. Before he could take two steps down the hallway, Alfred knew exactly where Arthur had gone and exactly what he was trying to do, the poor bastard. 

The faint scent of something burning made him smile and pick up the pace from meander to saunter. As he sniffed the air, Alfred remembered the handful of times he’d woken up hungover and hungry after some wild party to find Arthur in the kitchen, frowning furiously at a pan full of something he liked to call bubble and squeak and Alfred liked to call, “Guess we better go to Denny’s.” 

It made Alfred irrationally, ridiculously, happy to know that after ten years, Arthur still apparently couldn’t make breakfast.  

It made Alfred something else entirely to stroll into the kitchen ready to save the day and play hero to fried eggs only to find Arthur at the stove, humming under his breath, and wearing Alfred’s favorite ugly pants. He wondered if he was a little too old to feel his lust stir, lazy blood rushing due South, just because his pants hung a little too low on Arthur’s hips and he could tell he wasn’t wearing any underwear. 

As a scientist, Alfred decided he would need more than one morning to test such a theory on correlation of age to the sudden want to slide his arms around Arthur’s waist and kiss his neck. 

As a rational man, Alfred knew there was no time like the present to begin collecting data. 

He crossed the tiny room and had his hands on Arthur’s body before his “Good morning” could startle Arthur from his surprisingly good rendition of “Hey Jude.” 

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” Alfred teased, peering over Arthur’s shoulder and smiling blithely into Arthur’s unimpressed glare of hello. Alfred grinned winningly and kissed Arthur’s cheek, rubbing little circles lower and lower as he admired the especially fine mess Arthur had made of bacon, eggs, and toast. 

“Leave off, will you?” Arthur grumbled, though his fingers stroked the ridges of Alfred’s knuckles like he wanted Alfred to do anything but stop. Alfred smiled and redoubled his efforts, kissing the back of his neck and toying the drawstring of his stolen pajamas. Arthur leaned into the cradle of Alfred’s hips and laughing lowly as Alfred pushed his cock into the tempting curve of his bottom. “You’re going to make me burn the toast.”

Alfred laughed and kissed his ear, trying to soften the blow when he murmured, “You always burn the toast, Artie.”

For his efforts at sweetness, Alfred received a weak jab to the gut and teeth that snapped at the bottom lip he wanted to touch to Arthur’s scowl. He soothed Arthur’s halfhearted annoyance by slipping his fingers beneath his shirt and dipping his thumb into the warm hollow of his navel, nipping the edge of his jaw and feeling the prickle of unshaven skin against his tongue. He heard Arthur’s sigh, feigned suffering tinged with the undertone of desire that Alfred  knew meant he was about to win the argument. He hid his smile against Arthur’s cheek and gently turned the burner nob, one, two, three clicks until the only thing still turned on was him. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Arthur asked roughly, tilting his head back to rest on Alfred’s shoulder, frown wavering just enough to embolden Alfred to kiss his throat from shoulder to chin and cup Arthur through his pants.

“Just thinking that for once we might as well have a good reason for a ruined breakfast,” Alfred answered, taking two steps back with Arthur trapped against his chest. 

“You’re a bastard of the first degree. I don’t know why I tolerate you.” Arthur turned within his arms and kissed him deeply, sliding a tongue that tasted of bitter tea and a touch of milk into Alfred’s mouth. Alfred smiled into the falsely angry kiss and splayed his hands over Arthur’s bottom and squeezed, twisting cotton between his fingers and pulling Arthur closer.

“Apparently because you like to steal my pants,” Alfred whispered, sucking on Arthur’s earlobe to enjoy a sharp inhale and the sudden push of Arthur’s cock against his. Arthur’s teeth were harsh against his throat, but the curl of his fingers in the tangle of his bedhead was sweet, so Alfred kissed the length of his jaw and rocked into Arthur’s roll, hands still spread over Arthur’s ass. “I thought you hated these godawful things.” 

Arthur snorted and dropped his hands from Alfred’s hair to cup his face, thumbs brushing over the redness in his cheeks as he furrowed his brow and took on quite the professorial tone of disapproval, “Perhaps I wanted to see what all the fuss was about since you spend so much time lounging about in such hideous attire.” 

“I’ll have you know I’m not always lounging, thank you very much.” Alfred laughed shamelessly at Arthur’s frown of disbelief, licking the jut of his bottom lip as he tugged at the too loose pants until the cotton slipped away from Arthur’s skin and pooled on the kitchen floor. 

“Oh? You could have fooled me.” Arthur taunted, kicking the pants away and reaching for Alfred’s waist. He shivered and crowded into Alfred’s eager welcome, cock sliding against Alfred’s palm as he curled his fingers around the shaft and stroked. “So, enlighten me, what have you been doing other than impersonating a fraternity boy?” 

“What else?” Alfred answered sweetly, kissing Arthur as he leaned into the first touch of familiar fingers around his hardness and listened to the kettle shriek on the stove. He broke the embrace to wind his spare arm around Arthur’s waist and hold him close enough to murmur in his ear, “I’ve been studying, Professor Kirkland.” 

Arthur made that noise that Alfred loved, that little rough sound of pleasure and surprise that he thought about when the house was empty and he sat in Arthur’s chair and daydreamed about him in his sweater-vests holding court for a classroom full of bright-eyed undergraduates. Alfred thought he was probably a little bit bright-eyed and shining faced for Arthur too, especially when Arthur fluttered his eyelashes, canted his hips, and demanded, “Do tell, Professor Jones.” 

“Um. Ah. Hmm.” Alfred tried not to feel suddenly shy, not when Arthur was sucking the pulse point on his neck and pushing his cock into Alfred’s hand , but it was hard enough to think clearly when Arthur touched him, let alone to remember the words he’d had in his thoughts since that rainy afternoon with Arthur’s books. 

“Come now, I want to hear what it is you’ve learned.” Arthur kissed him gently and titled his head down until Alfred’s lips were brushing the shell of his ear. Arthur’s fingers toyed with the hair that curled at the back of his neck and it was too much to resist when Arthur whispered, “Dearest, please.” 

“Yes.” Alfred moaned and closed his eyes, parsing out the variables of Arthur’s touch and Arthur’s voice and another man’s words until he solved the equation of how to speak while Arthur stroked his cock. He kissed Arthur’s neck, once, twice, three times for courage and then bounded recklessly ahead. 

“ _I have perceived that to be with those I like is enough_.” Arthur sighed and Alfred splayed his hand over _his_ bottom. “ _To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough. To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough._ ”

Alfred swallowed and stroked Arthur fasted, listening raptly to the little broken breaths that ghosted over his shoulder and rushing his hand up and down the lovely flesh of Arthur’s back, loving the shivers that chased his fingers. “ _To pass among them or touch any one,_ ” he murmured, emboldened by the jerking of Arthur’s hips and the tiny buckle in his knees, “ _Or rest my arm ever so lightly around his or her neck, what is this then?”_

Alfred kissed up the curve of Arthur’s throat, tasting the early morning on his skin and raising his eyes up to admire the creases of his eyelids and the stain of his blush and the way his lips moved as the mouthed the words that Alfred spoke. Alfred twisted his wrist and tightened his fingers around the anxious, messy thrust of Arthur’s cock, licking the shape of his mouth as he whispered, _“I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as a sea.”*_

“My god,” Arthur gasped, pulling Alfred’s hair and biting his lip as he came, spilling between Alfred’s fingers and over his favorite t-shirt, kissing him wildly as though he wanted to taste the words on Alfred’s tongue. Alfred had no more words to give, having lost the beauty of Whitman in the obscene wonder of Arthur. He had no more to do now than catch Arthur’s weight within his arms and wait for the touch of Arthur’s fingers on his cock as he was now a poet gone silent.

But Arthur knew, because Arthur knew and had always known him best, and it wasn’t more than a minute before the lips that kissed were now against his ear, wet and wicked and murmuring, “ _Whoever you are, now I place my hand on you, that you be my poem. I whisper with my lips close to you ear.”_

Alfred moaned and raked his nails down Arthur’s back and craved more, more, more of whatever he could take. He felt Arthur’s smile, breathless and hot, and listened, “ _I have loved many women and many men, but I love none better than you.”**_

Alfred dragged Arthur from the crook of his neck to kiss him as he came, sobbing into his mouth and shaking within the clutch of his hands, trying to paint “I love you,’ with the slide of his fingers and the twist of his tongue.

Arthur moaned and collapsed against him, heavy and sweet as they stumbled into the counter and sent the cutlery Arthur had laid out for breakfast flying. The clattering of silver on tile had Alfred laughing even as Arthur kept kissing him like they’d never get another chance than right here and and right now. Alfred hummed and enjoyed the tutorial in post-poetic embrace until he’d recovered enough to ask,

“So, how’d I do, Professor?”

Arthur kissed the corner of his mouth. “Passable for a novice.” 

Alfred scoffed happily and slapped his palm over Arthur’s still bare behind, suffused with cheer and warmth on a rainy morning. “I love you, too, Artie. Now, how about I make us some breakfast?”

Arthur laughed, a low, endearing rumble against Alfred’s chest as he laced their sticky fingers together and said, “If you insist. But do put some pants on first.” 

~~

* Whitman’s [“I Sing the Body Electric”](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174740)

** Whitman’s [“To You”](http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16082)


End file.
